


The Answer

by sofia_gigante



Series: Questions and Answers [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Domestic, Eames is good with kids, F/M, Fear of Fatherhood, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Endangerment, Implied/Referenced Torture, Infidelity, M/M, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Inception, Single Parent Arthur, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He almost didn’t go the funeral. What the fuck could he say?</i>
</p>
<p> <i>My condolences. She was a lovely girl. She would have made a wonderful wife. She loved you, Arthur, even as we…</i></p>
<p> <i>Yeah. That wouldn’t go over so well.</i></p>
<p>Ariadne's gone, leaving a broken Arthur to raise their son alone. Only, Eames has a bad feeling he's not really Arthur's son, and Eames can't let go of guilt he feels for his part in Arthur's loss. </p>
<p>This is Eames' side of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Answer

**Author's Note:**

> About the tags: I want to be clear, since I know people (including myself) are sensitive to this--THERE IS NO ACTUAL CHILD ENDANGERMENT OR HARM in this story. Just the fear of it. 
> 
> About the stories: I strongly urge you to read [The Question](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4182996) first. Even though the stories are set in parallel timelines, things make more sense if the stories are read in order.

He almost didn’t go the funeral.

What the fuck could he say?

My condolences.

She was a lovely girl.

She would have made a wonderful wife.

She loved you, Arthur, even as we…

Yeah. That wouldn’t go over so well.

But avoiding the funeral would be the easy way out, and Eames never took the easy way.

Anyone who said there’s no honor among thieves had never been a thief themselves. If nothing else, he owed it to _her_. Ariadne had been one of the best bloody Architects he’d ever had the privilege to work with, and he’d be doing her a disservice not to pay his respects.

Especially after Shanghai.

So, he made himself get on the plane, get in the taxi, and walk up the stairs to the brownstone where the wake was being held. He didn’t recognize any of the mourners, a mix of Manhattan professional types and out-of-town relatives. That suited him just fine. Meant he could do this and get out, be back to the airport and on a plane to somewhere—anywhere—before the crab dip at the buffet got cold.

The casket was by the window, sleek and dark. Eames secretly wished that the lid was open. It was uncomfortable, sure, to look on the lifeless face of a friend, but it leant finality, closure. A chance to say good-bye face to face.

A chance to say you’re sorry.

A shrill, mewling cry cut through the murmured whispers, silencing everyone for a moment. Then, an older, dark-skinned woman hurried to the bassinet in the corner, cooing in a thick Jamaican accent as she pulled a newborn up into her arms.

The baby.

Eames’ heart did a swan dive into his stomach, his entire body going cold as realization surged through him, hard and cruel as a dagger through his gut.

The baby was blond.

Well.

Fuck.

****

It had been a typical love story: boy meets boy at work, falls head over heels.

They had so much in common. They were like in age. Both had been raised without fathers, Eames by his single mother, and Arthur by the state of Wisconsin. They both loved old action films, black coffee, and geeking out about dream sharing. He knew he was in love by the end of their first job—when Arthur had bent paradox to his will to keep a band of knife-weilding projections from skewering Eames through the heart.

Arthur preferred working Extractions for big corporations, but Eames found himself drawn towards more and more high-risk jobs in other countries working for crime syndicates. He needed the money. There were always debts, weren’t there?

They did their first two-man job together in Rio de Janeiro, right smack in the middle of Carnival. It went off without a hitch, Arthur the perfect level-headed yin to Eames’ explosive yang. Afterwards, watching Arthur tipsy and laughing in the street, wearing a cheap plastic mask over his boyish face, Eames had felt a sudden rush of certainty. He pulled Arthur into an alley, not to kiss, but to ask the most serious question of his life—“do you want to partner with me?”

Arthur needed time to think.

The next morning, sober and suited, Arthur said no.

Eames took too many risks, worked with too many shady syndicates. Arthur wanted…well he wanted to be taken seriously in this business, and that meant a degree of legitimacy.

And there Eames had it.

Arthur wanted to be “legitimate,” and Eames was decidedly not that in any sense of the word.

Deep down, Eames knew what Arthur meant-- _It’s not professional. It’s personal._

He didn’t see Arthur again until the Fischer job. He’s still hopeful, for a few weeks, teasing Arthur here and there, not sure if he’s flirting or just being an ass. It’s all moot, though, when he sees the way Arthur looks at her.

She was perfect for Arthur—petite, pretty, whip-smart and iron-tough. She was everything Eames was not: well-bred, educated— _legitimate_.

He found out about the wedding, even without a sappy little “save the date” postcard. He couldn’t help himself—he hunted down the engagement announcement on the _New York Times_ ’ website. There they were in the picture, Ariadne and Arthur, smiling as they embraced on a bridge in Central Park.

Perfect. Happy. Legitimate.

He had to see for himself.

When the Meng Job comes on Eames’ radar, he boarded a plane to New York. He’d never forget the look of sheer shock on Arthur’s face when he opened his front door to see Eames standing there, the dash of fear in his coffee-dark eyes.

_Afraid I’ll rock this perfect little world of yours, darling?_

It was a lovely little house in a lovely little neighborhood of the City. Then came the lovely little fiancée, all smiles and hugs. Her face had brightened as Eames had detailed the job, even as Arthur’s had darkened. Eames had left the plane tickets on the table, pretending not to see the guest lists, the color swatches, the bridal magazines. He had a feeling he’d never see either of them again.

He saw Ariadne three days later.

By the end of the job, Eames was glad she had come. He’d forgotten what a brilliant Architect she was, and unfettered by expectation—or the limited imagination of her fiancé—she had created two of the most beautiful, complex levels that Eames had ever had the pleasure of stealing in.

Most of the team celebrated together afterwards, and what began as a few cocktails in a classy Shanghai lounge quickly devolved into a drunken bar crawl through the city’s underbelly. After nearly two weeks of working so closely with Ariadne, Eames felt a sort of protective camaraderie towards her, fending off aggressive would-be suitors by pretending to be her hair-trigger boyfriend. She’s delighted by the game, playing her role as the damsel in distress to a T. Eames understands all to well—the liberation of pretending to be someone you’re not.

The game goes too far, though, when she kisses him, full and hard, in the middle of the street on Hengshan Road. He surprised himself by kissing her back. She’s tiny, almost delicate in his arms, and he feels odd, as if he’s doing something dirty.

He is.

By the time they get back to the hotel, he’s not thinking of her girlishness anymore. Oh no. She’s all woman now, hungry and yielding and fierce. She bends his body to her will as easily as if he were a dream, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the diamond on the band on her right ring finger.

The thought got him off.

Too late, he realized that probably wasn’t the best idea.

After it was finished, they’d laid together, not quite touching. Both of them were thinking of the same person, 8000 miles away. Then, quietly, she got up, dressed, and left, without so much as a backwards glance.

 A poisoned knot tied itself around Eames’ heart, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat that had little to do with all the liquor he’d drunk. God, he’d wished he’d been drunk enough to use that as an excuse for what he’d done.

He’d just fucked Arthur’s bride-to-be.

He thought it was the end of it when Ariadne was gone the next day. He went back to his life, his work, his games. He began to forget.

Until he received a slim envelope with no name on the return label.

His entire body went numb as soon as he saw the Re: on the official-looking letter inside—“Request for Biological Sample for Paternity Test.”

He sat with the letter for a long, long time, trying to wrap his head around the implications. He simply couldn’t, so he slid it away in a drawer in his desk, along with the other skeletons he tried to keep hidden.

Eames meant to get back to it. Truly, he had. But then there was a job, and another job, and then a much-deserved break, and yet another job. He put it off until yet another envelope arrived from New York, this one square and formal and handwritten.

His heart twisted, his vision blurred. Really, after everything—between him and Arthur, between him and Ariadne—they would have the fucking audacity to send him a _wedding invitation?_

_Please join us at a service held in loving memory of Ariadne Rosalynn Manis._

He was on the next plane he could get to New York.

*****

“Mr. Cobb, I am so sorry, but my daughter is sick! I have to go home! I cannot stay the night with the baby.”

Even from the kitchen, Eames can hear the nanny crying to Cobb in the living room.  He puts down the dishrag and the wine glass he’d been drying, stepping into the darkened dining room to better listen.

Eames had meant to leave hours ago. But every time he got close to the door, it felt like there was an invisible tether attached to his gut, refusing to let him go. He kept skirting around the living room, and every time he got too close to Arthur he would dart away, only to be confronted by the bassinet.  So, he’d retreated to the only safe place he knew—the kitchen.  He’d been to enough funerals to know that a pair of hands was always welcome there.

He watched from the shadows as Cobb weighed his options. He knew that look, all too well—it was Cobb’s “I’m fucked,” face. Well, that was his problem, then, wasn’t it?

Eames’ eyes drifted to the bassinet. This time, he forced himself to _look_ at the sleeping newborn. He looked so tiny. Frail. Alone.

Blond.

Goddamn it.

“I can stay.”

Cobb started, obviously surprised to see Eames come in from the dining room.

“You? No offense, but I think you’re the last person Arthur wants here.”

So. That answered that question: Cobb knew what had happened. Eames’ stomach knotted, a sickening wave of humiliation churning through him. He wasn’t used to feeling ashamed, not like this. He knew he deserved it, though, and he forced himself to meet Cobb’s gaze levelly.

“Doesn’t matter. No one else to look after the tyke, is there?”

Cobb’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “ _You_ know how to take care of a newborn?”

“I do,” Eames lied.

Cobb looked at his watch, at the tearful nanny, at Eames. He knew that no one else was offering, and he was out of options.

“Fine.” He leveled a stern finger at Eames, “Arthur’s been through enough. Don’t make it worse.”

The surge of disgrace roiled anew. There was a time, not too long ago, when Eames would have been the first one Cobb would’ve called if Arthur needed help. Those days, apparently, were gone for good.

Eames had damn well made sure of that.

“He won’t even know I was here.”

*****

When the door closed behind the nanny, what struck Eames the most was the utter silence. The baby slept on, blissfully unaware of the tumult he’d caused, and Eames simply watched.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it finally burst from him a sigh. When he was sure the baby wasn’t going to simply up and die from not being watched, Eames sat down slowly on the couch and picked up the list of instructions Dom and the nanny had hurriedly scrawled out for him.

_Wake baby every 3 hours to feed. Formula is in small bottles in fridge. Crack open, screw on ring and nipple, put in warmer for one minute (lowest setting), test on inside of wrist…_

When he got to the point about recording whether the baby had peed or pooped on a chart, Eames was sure that Cobb was just fucking with him to make his life harder, until he saw the chart, dutifully filled in with little dots and dashes for the past week.

Fucking hell. How did anyone survive if it took this much work to keep them alive the first few weeks?

The baby slept on. Eames turned on the TV, but kept it muted, lest he wake the tyke up, or Arthur. God, he didn’t think he could handle looking Arthur in the eye, much less explain why he was sitting in his living room at 10 p.m. with his baby.

Arthur’s baby. Arthur’s _blond_ baby.

Eventually, the tyke awoke, and stared up at Eames with nearly vacant eyes.The silence stretched on for an eternity. Finally, Eames cleared his throat.

“Hey there.”

The baby stared on.

“So, guess I should be feeding you, yeah?” He checked the list. “No, says I should change you first.”

That meant actually touching the baby.

He swallowed hard. He knew how to do this. He’d helped his mother with his nieces and nephews, so he was no stranger to changing nappies.

It took all his courage to slip his hands under the baby and pull him out of the bassinet. As he cupped his hand behind the infant’s head to support it, he was surprised at how solid the baby felt in his arms. Healthy. Innocent.

Perfect.

Something tugged in his chest, low, and vulnerable and terrifying. His throat constricted, a sudden wash of raw terror coursing through him.

_God, what have I done?_

The baby opened his mouth, and panic seized Eames as he prepared for the coming squall. But the tyke only yawned, blinked his dark eyes.

His eyes were as dark as Arthur’s.

This simple thought calmed Eames enough to get him moving into action. He could do this. It was just a baby. He could get though one night of what Arthur was going to have years of.

It was the least Eames could do for him, after what he’d done.

*****

“I christen thee Andrew Minos Graiden.”

What a name. Andrew, sure, that was a good name. A strong name. But Minos?

Then it hit Eames. Minos. Ariadne.

Suddenly, the name didn’t seem so silly anymore.

He watched from the very back of the church as Cobb held the baby over the basin, offering him to the priest to dribble holy water over his godson’s forehead. Andrew didn’t cry, he simply watched the proceedings with his wide, brown eyes.

Figures Arthur would want to get his tyke baptized. Eames knew he wasn’t devout, not at all, but it was more about tradition. Legitimacy.

Arthur was all about legitimacy.

The ceremony came to a close, and as Arthur turned to walk down the center aisle of the church with Andrew in his arms, Eames took the chance to duck out one of the side doors.

Once outside, Eames pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, lit it, and took a deep, long drag. It helped soothe him, a little, quell the quivering in his belly.

He hadn’t seen either Arthur or the baby since the night of Ariadne’s wake six months before. The nanny had arrived promptly at 8 a.m., freeing Eames to flee to a hotel room. The solid weight of Andrew in his arms had haunted Eames though, so much that he’d almost decided not to come to the christening.

He had anyway. He still didn’t know why.

Eames didn’t go to the reception, though. He loitered outside the brownstone, waiting for the right guest to pass by. While they were busy with the parking meter, he slipped his blank gift envelope into their sparkly white gift bag, letting them unknowingly smuggle his present into the reception for him. It’s not much, just a little something for the tyke.

Not that he—or Arthur—would ever know it was from him.

*****

 One year.

Eames knew what today was. He hadn’t marked it on any calendar, but he’d always been good with dates.

He hadn’t expected to find himself in New York this time of year, but business was business.  Too bad business didn’t start for another couple of hours, and he was left to wander aimlessly around the city until his appointment. Too bad he didn’t know of any casinos in Manhattan. Those were always good to kill a little time.

He stopped in at a corner store to buy a pack of cigarettes. Sitting on top of the magazine rack were three stuffed bears—one white, one blue, and one brown. He picked up the brown one, absently smoothing its fur. Funny, the color reminded him of Andrew’s liquid-dark eyes, staring up at him from his round little face.

He put the bear on the counter next to the smokes.

His feet took him automatically to the brownstone, even as his mind berated him for his sentimental sappiness.

_A fucking bear? “Sorry I slept with—and possibly knocked up—your fiancée. Here’s a stuffed bear for the kid you’ve been raising alone since she died.”_

By the time he’s on the street across from Arthur’s house, he’s ready to dump the toy in the nearest trashcan. 

He ducks behind a tree as a middle-aged woman emerges from the doorway.  Arthur followed, bidding a friendly farewell to her. He looks tired, quiet, but still casually collected in his blue polo shirt and black slacks.

So very legitimate.

As if feeling the palpable touch of Eames’ gaze, he looked up, his coffee-dark eyes locking right onto him.

Well, fuck.

To his surprise, Arthur crossed the street.

Neither of them knew what to say. So, they look at each other in awkward silence, a thousand questions, accusations, and apologies flickering between them. Finally, Arthur broke the silence.

“You still working?”

It’s the first thing Arthur had said to him in almost two years. It’s something, considering the last thing he’d said to Eames was, “no.”

Eames nodded, suddenly unable to meet Arthur’s eyes so close up. “Here and there.”

Silence stretched again.

“How’s the tyke?” Eames asked. He surprised himself when he realized he wasn’t just making conversation. He really wanted to know.

“Good. Growing.” Arthur considered. “Do you want to come in and see him?”

Shock rippled through Eames, shaking loose a whole avalanche of emotions he could barely name. He looked at the open door, the lintel festooned with a small bunch of blue balloons. Just beyond it, Andrew toddled by with the help of his nanny, the picture of cherubic innocence. Eames wondered just how sweet that little smile would be up close…

Something sharp and terrified twisted in Eames’ gut, driving away the odd moment of longing. It had been a long day, a long flight. He was being a stupid sap. Time to quit while he was ahead.

“I…I was just passing through. Have an appointment to keep.”

Before he lost all his nerve, he thrust the brown paper bag at Arthur. “Give the little one my best, yeah?”

Then he turned and walked away, striding down the street with his hands jammed in his pockets and his head held high.

*****

Paris. Of all the places Hephaestus Architecture had sent him, it would have to be Paris. Made sense, he figured, considering the big conference happening here—all he would have to do is pose as an architect in a fancy hotel for a few days, pick a few ripe targets, then slip into their heads to steal their “new and innovative” design ideas.

Really, he could think of two people so much better suited for this than him, but one is dead and one is, well, Arthur.

He can see the warehouse where they’d planned the Fischer job from his hotel window. He keeps the blinds drawn against the skyline.

He wandered out into the city until he found the Seine, trying to decide on which waterfront bistro to take his dinner. He tried not to look at the couples laughing over their wine glasses. He was long used to dining alone. Better than way, really. Could always find a spot. Like there, at that empty table…

No. Not empty.

In all the restaurants in all the world…

 “This seat taken?” Eames’ pulse was suddenly racing.

Arthur looked up from his menu in surprise.

“Eames? What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are. Working.”

To Eames’ surprise, Arthur nodded to the empty chair across from him. He’s glad for the company. Though he’d never admit it.

“I doubt very much we’re both doing the same type of work anymore.” Arthur leveled his gaze at Eames.

“Oh?” Eames’ eyebrow arched, and he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “You still legit, then?”

“As legitimate as architectural project management is,” Arthur sighs.

Ah. That explained why Arthur was here. He’d have to be careful to steer clear of him at the conference.

“Boring.” Eames sighed.

“Stable,” Arthur shot back. “Good health insurance.”

“Health Insurance?” Eames was suddenly concerned. “Is the tyke all right?”

Arthur blinked in obvious surprise. “Yeah. Fine. He checked out well at his 18 month appointment, though he’s not really talking yet.”

Eames sat back, considering. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Mum said I didn’t talk until I was almost three. I turned out fine.”

Eames couldn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.  He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Three minutes in, and he was already picking at the scab.

“I wouldn’t say fine.”

Relief flooded through Eames so completely that it made him laugh, a little more loudly than the weak joke warranted. Even more surprising, Arthur smiled at him. Eames’ heart stopped for a moment. He couldn’t remember the last time Arthur had genuinely smiled at him like that.

They talked for a while, keeping it light and easy. Two old work acquaintances chatting over dinner. They’re both careful to keep their food and drinks away from each other. And old extractor habit. No offense. None taken.

“You know, if you want to see Andrew sometime…” Arthur doesn’t finish his sentence. To be honest, Eames isn’t sure what he’s going to say next: _stop by anytime? Go fuck yourself, he’s my son?_

Eames considered for a long moment. He thinks of the tyke, that round little face, those coffee-dark eyes…that shock of blond hair. There, again, the cold dagger of fear in his gut, stabbing away any hint of longing he might be feeling.

“I’ve got a full docket these days,” Eames finally said, looking away. “Heading out to Istanbul in a couple of days.”

“Istanbul?” Arthur’s voice rose in genuine concern. “Are you working for—”

Eames put a finger to his lips to silence Arthur. Too many ears here, especially for the type of work he was about to do. It was fine though. He’d worked for the syndicates before. Not the Turkish ones, true, but if he could handle the Camorra, the Solntsevskaya Bratva, and the Yakuza, he could handle a small-time operation like Malik and his clan.

He gives Arthur a reassuring smile, and lights another smoke.

*****

“But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’s garden and squeezed under the gate!”

Eames deliberately exaggerated the concern in his voice, just as he used to when he’d read to his nieces and nephews in a previous lifetime. He’d forgotten about this feeling—the warmth of a small child curled in your lap, trusting and attentive. It was…nice. Peaceful.

It’d been five months since his and Arthur’s impromptu dinner in Paris. Eames hadn’t expected to ever take him up on his feeble offer, but when he’d been storming out of LaGuardia--his flight to Madrid delayed until the next day--he saw the _Peter Rabbit_ book in the window of the duty-free.  So now, here he was in Arthur’s living room, “popping in to check on the tyke.”

Andrew shifted, and his blond hair tickled Eames’ chin. Eames has the sudden, odd urge to bury his nose in it, breath deep the soft, soapy post-bath scent clinging to the boy.

He didn’t.

“How are you so good with kids?” Arthur asked, handing Eames a beer as he joined them on the couch.

“Helped raise my sister’s brood.” Eames shrugged. “She dumped them on my mum, and I had to help out ‘til I left for the service.”

“Sounds busy.”

“Too busy.”

 In his mind’s eye, Eames could still see the crowded little flat in which he’d grown up, practically bursting with people and possessions. There had always been someone running, someone crying, someone yelling, someone missing. Fucking madness. His mum had done the best she could, but he could always tell how much the little ones missed their real mum, who was out having an early midlife crisis in London.

 “Poor tykes,” Eames sighed. “Kids need a mother.”

It hung in the air, thick and acrid as smoke.

“I’m sorry,” Eames murmured, his face scarlet. “I didn’t think.”

_You never think, Eames. That’s what gets you into these messes._

“He’s got his madda,” Arthur said casually. Too casually.

Eames breathes again.

“Spends more time with her than he does with me,” Arthur continues. “It’s going to be hard on him when we move.”

Eames’ relief is short-lived. “You’re moving?”

“Have to. Building owner’s looking to sell, and once he does, the rent’s going to skyrocket. It’s happening all over the city, especially here in the Village. I can’t keep it up on one income.”

“Don’t you have…savings?” Eames asked carefully. “You worked a lot, before you became a project manager.”

A bitter little smile touched Arthur’s lips. “Medical bills. Ariadne didn’t have health insurance.”

“Oh.”

“Add in the cost of the rent, the nanny, diapers, formula…poof. Not if I want to have anything left over for Andrew to go to Cambridge someday.”

“Cambridge?” 

“Or Oxford. Not picky.”

Of course Arthur would pick “Oxbridge” for his boy. He wanted the best for Andrew—a good education at a top-notch school, all nice and proper and _legitimate_.

_And what can_ you _give him Eames?_

The thought came out of nowhere, hard and sudden as a lightning bolt through the heart. It left him just as fried, just as shocked, just as transformed.

Andrew  squirmed out of Eames’ lap and back down to the pile of big Legos on the floor.  Eames let him go without a fight.

_Like you always do._

“Where were you thinking of going, then?” Eames asked, trying to distract himself from his churning thoughts.

“I don’t know. Might move to the outer boroughs, might move to LA, be closer to Dom. Might up and go back to Milwaukee. Who knows.”

“Who knows,” Eames echoed absently, but already, his heart is going hollow. If Arthur moved, there was a very good chance that Eames would never see the tyke again.  Or…would actually have to make an effort to try to.

He didn’t know which thought scared him more.

His eyes locked on Andrew as he snaps together the brightly colored bricks.

“Lots of places in the world for a boy to grow up.”

*****

_Dear Mr. Graiden,_  
  
_Congratulations on your new home! As we understand that you are not yet of age, your new acquisition is in your father’s name, Arthur David Graiden, until you come of age on…_

Problem solved.

*****

“Daddy! Lookit my castle!”

Andrew patted the top of the mound of dirt proudly, grinning as only a two and half year old could.

As Eames approached them, he watched as Arthur snapped a picture with his phone. He was the portrait of the perfect father, taking his boy out for an afternoon at the park. Been nice of the nanny to tell him where they were, when Eames had dropped by on another layout visit. Had to check in on his investment, after all.

“Wow! That’s a great looking castle, champ!” Eames called out.

Arthur whipped around, his face screwed up in so much fury, it makes Eames take a step back.

“You!” Arthur snarled. “You had no right!”

Eames’ entire body goes cold, except for his gut, which churns hot with humiliation. Finally, Arthur’s broken open, the pain, the betrayal, the rage pouring from him in waves. Eames’ hands come up defensively. He wonders if Arthur’s going to hit him.  He considers letting him. He deserves it.

“Arthur, you really want to talk about this right here and now?”

 “The house,” he snapped tersely. “I meant the house.”

 “Oh.” Thank. Fucking. God.

“I don’t need your charity.” Arthur doesn’t look at Eames, but he can tell by the tenseness in his shoulders that he’s lying. Arthur was always a terrible liar.

“It’s not charity. It’s a gift.”

“It’s too much.”

“I wasn’t using the money for anything useful anyway. I can always get more.” He shrugged, keeping his expression even. He couldn’t let Arthur see the raw fragility, the truth of how Eames’ purchase had single-handedly driven him into financial ruin.

Arthur took a deep breath, and faced Eames. “I’m going to pay you back.”

“Not necessary. It’s why it’s a gift.”

_Can’t ever say I never did nothing for the boy…or for_ you _._

 “You can’t buy my forgiveness, Eames.”

It’s like a slap in the face. What’s even worse is that Arthur has called him on _exactly_ what he’d been trying to do, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself at the time.

He feels cornered, sick. He wants to run, or fight. Eames never runs, though, so, he opened his mouth to argue.

A tiny warning bell went off in the back of his head. His gaze flickered down to the vacant patch of sand beside them.

“Where’s the tyke?”

Arthur scanned the playground, checking the slide, the swings, the tunnel—no Andrew. Then he was off like a rocket, darting towards the nearby street, his face a mask of sheer terror. Eames trotted off in the other direction, towards the trees, the jogging path, the tinkling sound—ah. Of course.

“There you are!” Eames scooped Andrew up in his arms, hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He doesn’t realize that his stomach had knotted up until it unwound itself, relief washing through him like a cool drink of water.

“Arthur!” Eames called out. “Arthur, it’s okay!”

Andrew squirmed madly in Eames’ grip, oblivious to the panic he’s caused with his stunt.  

“I want ice cream!” The boy cried.

“Nope, not after running from your dad like that. Only good boys who listen get treats.” Eames’ voice was firm, yet kind.

As he carried Andrew back, he realized with a shock that he sounded just like his mum. She had quickly taught him that screaming and threatening his tiny nieces and nephews—even when they stole or broke his few possessions--had done nothing but make them more unruly. He’s surprised at how easily it came back to him.

Maybe he was better as this than he gave himself credit for.

Something old and hard in Eames gave, a stone wall inside of him crumbling to dust, floating away.

“You want to get dinner?” Arthur croaked out, surprising Eames.

He should go, really. Before he fucked things up worse, like he always did.

“I don’t think—”

“Pizza! Pizza!” Andrew chimed, clinging to Eames’ neck. “I’m hungry!”

“I’ll buy.”

“In that case, sure.”

*****

“Oh boy! It’s a plane!”

Andrew beamed at the tin toy he’d pulled from the battered paper bag Eames had presented him.

“Saw it in a market in Istanbul and thought of you, champ.”

Eames ruffled the three-year-old’s hair. It’s darkened some from the toe-headed blondness into a more sandy color. It reminds him of the family photos of him with his sister. His hair had darkened around the same time, too.

If he had dared reply to the envelope still sitting in his desk in Mombasa, he’d know the answer to the question he was _really_ asking.

“Thanks, Unc!” Andrew ran off to his room to play with his new toy, making airplane noises as he went.

Unc. Now that was a name Eames didn’t mind at all being called.

“Istanbul again?” Arthur asked as soon as Andrew was out of earshot. “Melik is a dangerous man.”

“He’s a bit old-fashioned, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before. He’s harmless.” Eames covered up his discomfort by taking a long draw from his beer.

“So harmless he gave you that shiner?”

Eames makes himself not touch the fading bruise rimming his eye. It wasn’t the first time he had taken a beating, and wouldn’t be the last. He knew he’d been lucky to get away with just a bit of a knock-around and a plea bargain.

“I fucked up,” Eames said lightly. “Now I owe them a little pro bono work to make up for it.”

“You’re going back?”

 Arthur’s tone makes Eames’ stomach churn sourly. He couldn’t lie to Arthur. He of all people, knew just how serious fucking up an extraction was. People died for it. There was no telling what sort of dangerous or illegal tasks Eames would be asked to perform to work off his debt. He had no other options, though. He’d already spent the money.

“Just for another job. Then I am done working for Melik and his clan. I hate Turkish food.” Eames chuckled dryly, trying to make light of his predicament.

Arthur didn’t bother laughing at the joke. “Look, I know I’m rusty, but I can leave Andrew with his nanny, come help you out.”

Eames’ heart stopped. So many years later, so much damage between them, and here Arthur was offering the one thing Eames had wanted all along—just Arthur and Eames, two thieves stealing from world.

He had to hide his face, but he can’t help but study Arthur sidelong, see if he’s just fucking with him or…

God. He was serious.

He would risk everything: his job, his house, his son, his _legitimacy_ , to help Eames out of his grimy little scrape.

“You? No offense, but I need someone a bit more…imaginative to help me out of this one.”

And then the moment was gone, Eames using humor and insults to deflect, like he always did. Arthur’s face hardens again, closes up. Eames tries to soften his jab with the truth.

“Besides. The tyke needs you. You can’t take stupid risks anymore.”

“Unc, are you staying?” Andrew padded back into the kitchen—as if on cue—his impish face hopeful. God, he looked more and more like Ariadne each time Eames saw him.

“I’m afraid I can’t, champ. I have a flight to catch tomorrow.” He got down on one knee. “Just wanted to check in on my favorite little monster.”

“Do you have to go?” The boy pouted. “Daddy’s always more fun when you’re around.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up as quickly as Arthur’s, their eyes meeting over Andrew’s head. Sure, in the past six months they’d had a few nice dinners and outings when Eames dropped by for one of his surprise layover visits, but Eames had just seen it as a way for Andrew to have some semblance of family in his life.

He did it for Andrew.

“You already have your hotel?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Not yet.”

“The couch is yours, if you want it.”

*****

Andrew’s sobbing cry woke Eames from a deep sleep. He’d been dreaming of Rio, of Paris, of Shanghai.

Bleary-eyed, Eames sat up on the couch. Without thinking about it, he got up, and padded barefoot towards the tyke’s room, hurrying as his cries grew more shrill and urgent.

“Hey, hey, shhhhh, it’s all right.”

Andrew was sitting up in bed. He was clutching a small, brown bear to his chest. It took Eames a moment to recognize it in the dim glow of the night-light—the bear he’d bought him for his first birthday.

 “Unc?” Andrew’s crying slowed, and then stopped.

“Yeah, champ. I’m here.”

Eames sat down on the edge of the tyke’s bed. His round little face was streaked with tears, and Eames brushed them away with the pad of his thumb.

“Don’t go.”

“I promise I’ll stay until you go back to sleep.”

“Don’t wanna sleep.”

“Sure you do. Sleep is great. You get rest, have fun dreams—”

“Dreams are scary.”

“Sometimes. But they can’t hurt you. They’re just in your head.”

He, more than anyone, understood the lie he had just told. The truth was too big, too frightening for the little guy to grasp. Instead, he stroked that mop of sandy blond hair, thought of a way to soften the falsehood.

“I don’t know if he’s told you, but your daddy has a special power. He can control dreams.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm. Maybe when you’re older, he’ll teach you how.”

“Will it make the bad dreams go away?”

“It’ll make them less scary. Now, go to sleep.”

Andrew laid back down, and Eames pulled the covers up around him. Andrew’s eyes were still wide open though, intent and serious as Arthur’s.

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…”

No. No way.

“Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…”

Eames was singing to Andrew.

“Hush now, don't you cry.”

He hadn’t sung lullaby in his life, ever. That had been his mother’s job, even as he’d been responsible for making sure the nieces and nephews had been scrubbed and tucked in. She’s sing the same songs she’d sung to him as a boy, the old Bing Crosby tunes she loved and he found unbearably hokey.

Tonight, though…tonight it was just what felt right.

Eventually, Andrew’s eyes closed, his breathing evened. Eames stood, slowly, and tip-toed out of his room.

It wasn’t until he was halfway to the couch that he heard the sobbing coming from the bathroom.

He stepped quietly towards the door, making sure he’s hearing correctly. The choke of Arthur’s cry is unmistakable—considering Eames had never heard it before.

If he thought he’d known what heartbreak was before…

His hand froze on the doorknob. He wanted to go in, to comfort his old friend, his old love—

He can’t.

The truth winds like a snake in his gut, gnawing and poisonous. If what Eames suspects is true…Arthur is in there because of Eames.

If had been able to let go of Arthur, if he hadn’t come to him and Ariadne with that job, if he hadn’t fucked her to spite Arthur…

But she’s gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

His eyes feel hot, tight. He steps away from the door, quickly. He needs air. Now.

Outside, on the stoop, sucking down a cigarette with a vehemence, he makes one of the hardest decisions of his life. Once he leaves tomorrow morning—because to leave now would tell shrewd Arthur that Eames knew about his break-down—he wouldn’t come back. He’d done enough to mess up Arthur’s life. It was time to give him—and the tyke—a good, clean start, away from the ghosts that lingered around Eames. He was bad news, always was, always would be. He’d clean up his mess in Istanbul, and then disappear. He’d find somewhere new to establish himself. Maybe Chennai. Maybe Bangkok.

The song comes to his lips one more time, and he sings softly into the silent city night.

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral…”

*****

He didn’t know how long he’d been down here. Two weeks? Two months? Two years?

He’d known something was wrong when his contact wasn’t at the rendezvous point, replaced by the surly lackey that had been his second-in-command during the botched job. Why would Saburo get a promotion after they’d all fucked up so spectacularly?

Eames had found out, too late, that it hadn’t been a promotion. It had been a coup, and ol’ Sabu had been on the winning side. Malik was gone, replaced by one of his hawk-eyed lieutenants, Batur.

The king was dead. Long live the king.

They’d locked him in a tiny room in some makeshift prison with only a blanket and a bucket. When he’d tried to escape, they’d taken them both.

He’d thought the waiting was the worst.

He was wrong.

It had begun with the dreams. They were so crisp and vivid, that he knew they had to be induced. Which meant, he wasn’t alone in his head. He tried to hide the important things. Used every old extractor trick he could think of, things he’d learned from Cobb, from Arthur.

They still found enough.

They found _him_.

In the course of his sordid life, Eames had seen some truly horrifying things—both in dreams and in waking life. Atrocities that haunted him, had changed him.

He’d never seen anything before that had broken him.

Not like this.

“No. Not him! Don’t hurt him!”

His throat was raw from screaming, his face wet with tears and sweat. His heart hammered so hard he thought it would break through his ribcage. He would’ve gladly cut it out himself if it meant they would stop, let Andrew go.

“Don’t! NO! Me! Hurt me! Me not him not him not my—”

He awoke screaming, one of his eyes a red explosion, followed by searing emptiness.

That was only the first time of many.

Every time they dumped him back in his cell, trembling and bleeding and in excruciating pain, he clung to the smallest shred of hope he had left. He knew no one knew where he was, that no one was coming for him. He’d made damn sure of that. He was going to die here, slowly, horribly. Alone.

He was strangely fine with that.

If this cell, this torture wasn’t his reality, then those dreams they forced on him were.  

He fingered the worn poker chip they hadn’t bothered to take from him, muttering over and over to himself.

“It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream…”

*****

 “Ar…Art…”

“Don’t try to talk. We’re going to get you out of here, Eames.”

“Wha…”

“He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I can see that. Get the med kit.”

“Arthur, we only have a few minutes!”

“And all this will be for nothing if he bleeds out right here! We move after he’s stable!”

“Dr…Drew?”

“He’s fine. Safe.”

“Thank God,” Eames actually sobs. “It was just a dream.”

He tried to walk as far as he could. Before he passed out, he wondered when he awoke this time, what part of his body would be missing.

*****

_“Don’t! NO! Me! Hurt me! Me not him not him not my—”_

 “Hey, hey, shhhhh, it’s all right.”

Eames’ eye flew open—his vision still strained and myopic—darting around in terrified disorientation. When it landed on Arthur’s face it stopped, focused intently.

_God, please don’t let this be a dream. I’ll do anything, anything you want, to make this real._

“Arthur?”

“Yeah, Eames. I’m here.”

“Don’t go.”

“Not going anywhere.”

Arthur’s hand slid easily into his, squeezing tightly. Eames clung back, holding onto Arthur as if he were a lifeline. They sat in silence for a long, long time, listening to the murmur of the city through the open window. Eames had no idea where they were. Somewhere safe.

As if anywhere would be safe again, after what was etched into his mind, his flesh.

“Why did you come?”  Eames doesn’t recognize his own voice. It sounds soft, afraid, fragile.

“I told you I’d pay you back for the house.” Arthur grinned. It was such a forced gesture that Eames knew he was really bad off. Not like he didn’t realize it. He knew what had been done to him—to his face, his legs.  He’ll be lucky if he could ever walk again.

Eames stared at Arthur with his one eye, as if trying to see through him, cut through the feeble façade to reach the very heart of him. If this was a dream, and he was about to wake up again in that hell, he wanted to clear his soul before he died.

Imagined catharsis was still better than none.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Arthur lied, gently.

 “I knew what we were doing to you. But after you walked away from me in Rio…then watching you two fall for each other right in front of me…”

“Please stop.”

“I wanted to hurt you. I’m…I’m so sorry.”

Eames could barely breathe. And there it was, out in the open at last. Why, of all the men in the world, when Ariadne had turned to Eames, he knew it would be not one, but two blades through Arthur’s heart.

Eames waited for the retaliation he deserved, the hot flare of Arthur’s anger. Eames had nursed his shame for so very many years. He was ready to face his penance.

Now, though, looking up into the pure, calm expression on Arthur’s smooth face, the compassion gleaming in his dark eyes, he saw no vengeance.

 “I forgive you,” Arthur whispered.

The festering knot that had twined itself around Eames’ soul finally unraveled and fell away.

“I want to make things right,” Eames whispered. He closed his eye. “For both you and Drew.”

He felt the soft, warm press of Arthur’s lips on his sweaty forehead. It was only then that he truly believed that this was no dream.

“Let’s get _you_ right, first.”

*****

“I see him!” Andrew cried out jubilantly. “I see Unc!”

Eames hears the tyke calling out before he can see him. As he made his way slowly past the customs checkpoint, his eye was scanning the crowd for him and Arthur. Even amid the motley crowd of the airport, Eames felt self-conscious, knowing how badly he stood out with his dark eyepatch and his wooden cane. He would never blend in anywhere again. Not that he needed to. He was officially retired.

“Unc!” Andrew hollered.

Eames turned towards them, his face breaking out into a grin. He felt like his old self for a moment. It was beautiful.

Arthur spared him the trouble of walking all the way towards them, and met him halfway. Eames embraced him, easily, surprised at how his body warmed to feel Arthur against his.

“I ordered you a wheelchair,” he murmured into Eames’ ear.

“Don’t bloody need it,” Eames replied, indignant pride flushing through him. There was no way, after all the work he’d done with the doctors and therapists in London, that he would let Andrew’s first view of him be in a fucking  wheelchair.

“Gonna take us a year to get to the car.”

“You in a rush?”

“Not me.”

“Unc! Unc!” Andrew bounded around them like a sandy-haired puppy. “Did you bring me present from London?”

“Drew, you know better than to ask for presents!” Arthur sighed.

Eames smiled down at the boy.  God, he’d missed him. “I did. But you’ll have to be good and listen to your Dad until we get to your house.”

Andrew pouted. “What happened to your eye? You look like a pirate.”

Eames almost laughed at Arthur’s horrified expression. That was an almost four-year-old for you, painfully honest.

Eames was ready for this. “Well, I am a pirate! That’s what I was doing in London. Pillaging the high seas!” His pirate impression even made Arthur laugh along with his son.

It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

*****

“You sure you’re okay on the couch? You can have the bed if—”

“Will you stop mothering me? I’m fine!”

“The rental bed should’ve arrived this afternoon, I don’t know what happened.”

“Look, if I can sleep on a plane, I can sleep on a couch.”

Eames stretched out on the couch, trying to hide it as his nerves screamed as he stretched out his legs. There was only so much two surgeries and nine months of physical therapy could do.

“Really, take the bed.”

“Really, go fuck yourself.”

“Fine. Good-night.”

*****

_“Don’t! NO! Me! Hurt me! Me not him not him not my—”_

“Braden!”

Eames’ eyelids snapped open. Arthur sat inches from him, holding one of his hands.

“You’re awake. You’re safe,” Arthur soothed. His hand moved up to Eames’ forehead, smoothing away the tendrils of sweaty hair sticking there.

“You haven’t called me that in years.” Eames realizes.

Arthur shrugged, looking oddly shy. “Thought it would help to hear your actual name.”

“It does.”

Eames’ disorientation and fear slowly faded, his breathing slowly coming back under control. However, it’s enough for him to read the barely-checked revulsion in Arthur’s eyes as he stares at Eames’ face. His gaze darted quickly from the gaping hole to his one remaining eye, and Eames’ heart lurched sickeningly.

Slowly, Eames pulled his hand out of Arthur’s, as much as he hated to let go. But he needed both hands to put on his eyepatch. He knew what a horror show his face was now, and he didn’t want to make Arthur suffer any longer than he had to.

Arthur had already done more than enough for him.

“Did I wake the tyke?” Eames tried to cover his embarrassment with concern.

“Still asleep.”

“You sure?”

“If he were awake, he would be out here now, asking you to play pirates again.”

That got a genuine smile out of Eames. It was fleeting, though, as realization shadowed him—what if it had been Andrew that had found him like this? Eames couldn’t do that to the boy. There was no telling how much damage it would do him to see his fun, proud Unc reduced to a jabbering, one-eyed freak.

 “I’ll get a hotel tomorrow.”

“Why would you do that? I told you we’ll get you a real bed—”

“I can’t let him see me like this.” Eames whispered. His voice had taken on a brittle edge, the same it’d gotten whenever he’d discuss his recovery with Arthur over the phone from London. “It’s bad enough he’s got to see me with the cane and the eyepatch, but…”

_To know you, of all people have to see me like this…it’s too much to bear._

Slowly, Arthur reached out for Eames’ face, ran his fingers over the edge of the eyepatch. Eames was frozen as Arthur carefully pulled it off, his heartbeat surging once again. This time, as he looked at Eames’ naked face, Arthur didn’t flinch. He simply took him in, his dark eyes luminous, loving, accepting.

“You look just fine to me, Braden. Fucking handsome as ever.”

Eames shook, badly. Arthur gathered him fully into his arms, and Eames let him, not realizing just how much he needed this, this feeling of being utterly protected, cared for. Eames’ breathing stopped as Arthur’s lips grazed the eyelid closed over the hollow of his missing eye. Arthur’s lips skimmed downward until they found Eames’ lips, full and moist and yielding. Kissing him was like coming home.

After that night, Eames never slept on the couch again.

*****

He almost didn’t go the wedding.

What the fuck could he say?

She’s a lovely girl.

She’ll make a wonderful wife.

Oh, these? Just a couple of souvenirs I got in Istanbul when I was tortured by the Turkish Mafia for two weeks.

Yeah. That wouldn’t go over so well.

But avoiding the wedding would be the easy way out, and Eames never took the easy way.

Anyone who said there’s no honor among thieves had never been a thief themselves. If nothing else, he owed it to Cobb. Aside from being one of the best bloody Extractors he’d ever had the privilege to work with, he’d be doing him a disservice by turning down his invitation—not just to his wedding, but for his renewed friendship.

Especially after Shanghai.

So, he made himself get on the plane, get in the taxi, and slowly walk up the stairs to the resort where the wedding was being held. He recognized only a couple of the guests, a few other retired Extractors blending in with the out of-town-relatives. That suited him just fine. Meant he could do this and get out, be back to the hotel suite and stretched out in room’s Jacuzzi tub before the crab dip at the buffet got cold.

He had a feeling Arthur wouldn’t mind too much. A wedding—even Cobb’s wedding—was bound to be a knife in the heart for him. So Eames did his best to keep him distracted, pointing out the few faces he knew Arthur didn’t recognize as they stood at the edge of the reception area.

“That one, the big, Samoan bloke—best damn Architect on the Pacific Rim before he retired.” Eames whispered in Arthur’s ear. “He and Dom go way back.”

Arthur smiled, and it was enough to distract Eames from the pain that was beginning to shoot down his legs.

“Hey.” Dom materialized next to Arthur, breathless, smiling. Eames had never seen Dom this happy.  The bride—Bridgette—joined them, a vision in diaphanous white. The dress set off her ebony skin and flattered her lean form.

“You look lovely,” Arthur murmured as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. Eames didn’t miss the flicker of sadness on Arthur’s face, the fleeting ghost of Ariadne hovering in his eyes. Eames wondered if Arthur had ever gotten to see her in her wedding dress. He knew he’d never ask.

Instead, he squeezed Arthur’s hand, bringing him back to the here and now. His eyes cleared, and Eames could practically see the memory of Ariadne float away on the warm, tropical breeze, free to dance away on the nearby ocean tide.

“Let’s take a walk,” Eames said after the bride and groom swept off to greet the next group of guests. It’s a small wedding, right on an Oahu beach, and Eames knows the view’s a good excuse to get away from the little crowd—and all the questioning eyes.  

“Should I get your cane?” Arthur asked, and Eames realized just how heavily he’s leaning on him. They’d been standing a lot today, more than he should have been, according to his doctors. What the fuck did they know, anyway?

“No, don’t want to go far. Just want to take in the view.” Eames nodded towards the water, where the sun was scheduled to set in about 15 minutes. Not far away, Andrew scampered in the sand with Phillipa, James, and a few other children, their wedding finery streaked with wet sand. Eames didn’t care; after what he’d gone through, he was just glad to see the children all together, safe, happy, innocent.

They walked away from the reception, the music from the band fading quickly as they got closer to the rush of the waves. His leg muscles were on fire, the nerves cutting like knives. He tried to hide it with his breathing, but he knew he was failing when Arthur steered them towards a crop of nearby rocks. By the time Arthur had guided him to sit on the smoothest rock, Eames was in a cold sweat, barely able to brace himself up.

“Fucking legs,” he muttered. God, this was so humiliating. He knew he was lucky to have even this…but still. It would take years for him to get used to his limitations.

“Not your legs I’m fucking.” Arthur tried a feeble joke.

Eames glowered at him from his one good eye. He was wearing a tan, plastic eyepatch today, to blend in better with his skin tone for the special occasion. Eames preferred the black one; it was more comfortable. But this way he could pretend that he blended in a bit better with the normals, didn’t look so much like what he was—a former thief and con man.

Arthur sat down besides Eames as best he could on the rock, putting an arm around Eames’ waist and pulling him closer. Eames rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and they sat, silent, watching the sun drop closer and closer towards the horizon.

Peace radiated through Eames. For a moment, he didn’t care how much pain he was in. He was with Arthur. Things were, well, perfect.

From the pocket of his white suit, Arthur pulled out a small, black velvet box. He held it out to Eames.

“What’s this?” Eames asked, his head coming up slowly. His throat was suddenly dry, his palms sweaty.

 “Open it.”

Eames cracked open the box. Every fiber of his being honed in on the contents, wrapping themselves around the incredulous hope shining up at him. Eames’ heart thundered, pounding louder than the ocean waves.

 “You asking what I think you are, love?” 

“I am. Do you want to hear me say it?”

 “I think I do, yeah.”

Never, in his entire life, had Eames ever felt so expectant. Last time, when he’d been the one asking Arthur a very similar question, he’d gotten an “I need to think” that had led to years of drama, heartbreak, and…and Andrew.

God, and what this must mean for Arthur. Eames’ throat knotted. He knew what this meant. Arthur wanted to make what they had truly real. Binding.

Legitimate.

He didn’t go down on one knee. That was fine. Eames wouldn’t have been able to either.

So, sitting side by side, staring out at the sea, Arthur asked the question that Eames had thought he’d never hear.

“Braden Michael Eames, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

No hesitations. No questions. No negotiations. Just pure, quiet happiness, utter completeness.

The ring fit perfectly on Eames’ finger, the diamond in the thick gold band shining like fire in the sunset, bright as the joy in Eames’ heart.

*****

The house was still a mess, even at 9 p.m., but what did Braden expect when Arthur had invited an entire kindergarten class over for a birthday party?

Arthur was still in the living room, sifting through the debris, the shreds of wrapping paper, sagging balloons, and half-eaten plates of cake. Braden found it quite flattering that Andrew had picked a pirate theme for his birthday. Again.

He sat alone in the bedroom, clutching a battered envelope in his hand. He knew exactly what it was, and not just because it was nearly identical to the one that had sat in his desk in Mombasa until it had been too late.

He’d found it in Arthur’s bedside table eight months before. He hadn’t meant to, he’d only been trying to help straighten the bedroom, put away some of the laundry he’d feebly folded. With Arthur at work and Andrew at school, Braden had felt so fucking useless. He hadn’t meant to pry, truly.

Now, here it was again, out on the bed, as if Arthur had meant for Braden to find it. He hadn’t—Arthur wasn’t manipulative like that—but the implications were almost worse.

Arthur was still asking the question.

It made Braden’s decision so much easier.

 “Love?” Arthur called out softly from the hall, trying not to wake Andrew.

“In here.”

Braden’s heart thundered. After all the lies, the betrayal, the deceit…was he really going to go through with this?

Arthur stepped into the bedroom, and when he saw what Braden was holding his face fell.

“What’s this?” Braden asked. He looked up at Arthur, knowing. He needed to hear Arthur say it.

“An answer,” Arthur replied. He joined Braden on their bed.

“An answer to what?”

Arthur swallowed hard, twisting his gold wedding band on his finger, like he always did when he was nervous. “To a question I stopped asking a year ago.”

Braden wished, with his heart of hearts, that he believed Arthur. But he knew his old friend, his lover, his husband. He saw the question in his eyes at odd moments, whenever Braden and Andrew were curled on the couch reading, or when they laughed at the same time, or played pirates together.

The question would always be on Arthur’s mind.

“You never found out?”

Arthur shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to know. Now…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Braden slowly put the envelope down. He swallowed hard.

It did matter. It mattered to Arthur. He would never have peace until he knew the truth.

No. Not the truth.

“I have a present for you.”

“Oh?”

Braden pulled a folded square of paper from his pocket. “Been doing some digging. Called in a few favors, had some police records pulled—”

“I thought you said you were done with—”

“Last job, I promise.”

The Graiden job.

Braden handed him the paper. “I hope you’ll appreciate my efforts.”

Arthur’s hand were shaking as he read the paper in front of him. It was a color photocopy of an old Wisconsin driver’s license—David Pierce Graiden.

Braden knew that Arthur had seen that name a dozen times on a dozen legal documents, but never once had he actually seen a picture of his father. There were none. Eames had looked.

The man in the picture was sandy blond.

Same as Andrew.

There’s more.

The same shape eyebrows. The same full lips. Perhaps, in thirty years, the same shaped nose.

_Same._

It had been the most difficult forgery that Braden had ever undertaken. Eight months in the constructing, a composite of pictures of Arthur and Braden’s father. He didn’t use himself. It would have been too telling. This way, the mark of the genetic legacy was there, without the overt characteristics.

Braden felt a lump rise in his throat as he took in Arthur’s quiet elation. This…this was why he’d done this. One last job. One last con.

Braden had opened the envelope.

He hadn’t been able to sleep for days, knowing it was there. Knowing that Arthur had kept it. Knowing that Arthur didn’t know. Eventually, he gave in, and when Arthur was at work he’d steamed the letter open. It’d been easy, the glue being so old.

As soon as he’d opened it, he wished he’d just left well enough alone.

_Negative match._

Arthur’s DNA sample hadn’t matched Andrew's.

Which meant…

Deep down, he’d known. Braden had always known. From the moment he’d seen that little mop of blond hair peeking out of the bassinet at Ariadne’s wake, he’d known Andrew was his.

His son.

He hadn't realized he was crying until his tears fell on the paper, his sobs rising in his throat. He'd let them free, knowing he was alone, the only one in the house to hear. Everything that had been bottled up in the past five years had finally come pouring out—the guilt, the bitterness, the loneliness, the grief. He cried for Andrew, for Ariadne, for himself.

For Arthur.

Arthur could never know.

He'd forged a positive version of the test to seal back in the envelope, in case Arthur ever gathered the courage to open it. He'd burned the original. Then, he'd spent months creating that false driver’s license, carefully constructing the lie that was Eames’ true gift to Arthur.

After everything Eames had done, everything Arthur had lost…Eames couldn’t take Andrew from him, too. He’d been the one to raise him, to name him, to love him. No matter what the test said, Arthur was Andrew’s father first.

In this lie, Eames could give Arthur what always wanted, what biology said he couldn’t have—

Legitimacy.

God help him if Andrew ever needed a blood transfusion. Braden would just have to take extra care to keep him safe. Care for him. Love him.

As a father should.

Braden’s arm slipped around Arthur’s shoulder, pulling him close. He said nothing, only pressed a soft kiss to Arthur’s temple, locking away the secret deep in his heart.

 “Fucking Eames,” Arthur whispered.

“You’re welcome, darling.”


End file.
